


didn't mean a thing

by fangirl6202



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Boys In Love, Denial of Feelings, First Kiss, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Soft Spot Conlon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27090277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl6202/pseuds/fangirl6202
Summary: “I-I didn’t mean what I said.” Racetrack stuttered as he looked into those dark brown eyes. Those eyes that had been haunting his dreams and fantasies for weeks now. Those eyes that were staring back at him with such coldness it was tearing him apart.“You didn’t mean it?”"N-No. I didn't.""That's a mighty big thing to go around saying, Racer," he said, voice colder than he had heard in a long time. "'Specially when you 'don’t mean it.' "
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 23
Kudos: 80





	didn't mean a thing

**Author's Note:**

> TW: a homophobic hate crime is described though not in great detail

“I-I didn’t mean what I said.” Racetrack stuttered as he looked into those dark brown eyes. Those eyes that were as angry as a storm and as sweet as the cotton candy on Coney Island, depending on the day. Those eyes that had been haunting his dreams and fantasies for weeks now. Those eyes that were staring back at him with such coldness it was tearing him apart. 

“You didn’t mean it?”

There was no emotion in his voice; none of the raging anger that the newsies of New York had grown to associate with the boy in front of him. Even if he was a good head shorter and he had to stretch his neck to look up at the Italian, there was no doubt Racetrack was the smaller man. There wasn’t a person in New York who came close to Spot Conlon.

Race took in a shuddering breath before responding.

"No. I didn't."

It was a lie, and Race prayed to God that it wasn’t noticeable. He’d been gambling for years, was known throughout New York as the luckiest gambler known to mankind, but this was the first time he felt no confidence in one of his fibs. He didn’t know if it was because of the magnitude of this lie or because of who he was lying to.

Racetrack knew damn well it was the latter.

What he had been thinking was pure lunacy. He guessed it was the adrenaline of everything, the strike, the win, Jack staying, that he hadn't been able to keep his damn mouth shut. The streets were full of newsies, anxiously awaiting the word that their efforts weren’t for nothing. Race hadn’t even been able to hear Jack scream out the words ‘We won!’ as the second his smile was shown, the streets began screaming. He didn't know what he was thinking. 

_I love you!_

He was thinking about the nights filled with poker and cigarette smoke, sharing his prized cigars with Spot because there was no one else he trusted more.

_I love you!_

Rooftops at midnight, stargazing with liquor on their breaths that they’d gotten God Knows Where. The frigid night air gave them a reason to huddle close, even if the booze warmed them up nonetheless. Pointing out all the constellations in the sky they knew and naming the ones they didn't. Stupid shit like _Sheepshead_ and _Corona_ and _The Sun Because Damn it We Couldn’t Pick Between The Eagle or The World Even Though My Pape Is Better._ That last one was his personal favorite.

_I love you!_

Screaming till their voices were hoarse at the Sheepshead Races, full-on kettle corn they had stolen just because they could. Spot was more than financially stable enough to pay, being the King of Brooklyn gave him the luxury to save, but he let Race steal for him. Because he knew it was the only way Race could give him anything. Even if he disapproved of the methods, Spot was always happy when Race placed a bag of kettle corn in his hands.

_I love you!_

Heading to the theatre and watching from the rafters even though Medda would let them use a private box, dancing along with the choreography they learned from watching so often. There was no shame in the fact that they were both playing dames, and no shame in the fact that the choreography often had them holding hands. If anything, Spot insisted on dancing those songs exactly as choreographed. It’d be a damn shame if the choreographer’s work went unappreciated.

_I love you!_

The walks across the bridge at night even though Racetrack was more than able to get home safely. Brooklyn didn’t go across the bridge alone, Spot insisted, and Race was Brooklyn. Holding each other's wrists when the weather made the bridge slick, though Race wished it was more. He never really understood why.

_I love you!_

Clutching each other as every Newsie this side of the Hudson cheered at their victory, no one paying them mind as they hugged a little too long, held on a little too tight. 

_I love you!_

Racetrack did mean it. Meant it with all his heart, with every fiber of his being, with all his soul. He meant it when he let him go, grinning and near-deaf with everyone around them, shouting it out before he could think. 

**_I love you!_ **

He was in love with Spot Conlon. 

And it would get him killed. 

Spot looked at him, furrowing that handsome brow as he crossed his arms. Those beautifully toned arms that conveniently became more displayed the day Race had drunkenly told him he thought they were his best feature. Why Spot didn’t soak him that night, Race didn’t know.

"That's a mighty big thing to go around saying, Racer," he said, voice colder than he had heard in a long time. " 'Specially when you ' _don’t mean it._ ' "

Race ducked his head, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. This was all wrong. 

Race had avoided Brooklyn for the past week, hadn't been selling much either. He had found himself in the slums, drinking shitty hooch more times than he could count, even if no one could call him on it. He headed out earlier than other Newsies and stayed out later than any other. Jack had gotten onto him but it only took one purposely cold " _you're not my ma_ " to get him off his back. Race wasn't proud of it, but he couldn't have anyone finding out why he wasn't in Sheepshead. 

Until Spot himself crossed the bridge. 

He wasn't stupid. Refusing an audience with the most powerful Newsie in all of New York was a horrible idea, especially for a 2nd-in-command. So when the Brooklyn Newsie showed up to the Lodge, asking for him, he had no choice but to follow him. 

"Come on, Spot," he said, trying to play it off and failing miserably. "We's close enough for me to say it, ain't we?" 

"You ever say it to Kelly?" Spot asked. "Or Crutchie? 

Race faltered a second and Spot scoffed. "No, I didn't think so." 

If this were any other scenario, Race would feel a warmth to his cheeks at the fact that Spot knew him so well. But he felt nothing but cold fear.

"Spot, please." He pleaded, and he reached out as if to touch his arm. Both boys’ eyes widened and Race pulled back. "You have to know I _didn't mean it."_

Suddenly, that famous temper reared its head. Without warning, Spot pushed Race back, hard, and his back hit the wall behind him. Letting out an absolutely pathetic whimper, his eyes grew to the size of platters and his heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. 

He didn't know if his accelerated pulse was because of fear or if because Spot looked so much more _beautiful_ up close. He had a beauty mark on his cheekbone, a faded scar on his nose, and freckles spread all over --

"Bullshit," Spot growled and he bunched up a fistful of Race's shirt. "That is bullshit, Antonio, and you know it." 

Hearing Spot say his name, his real name, made him let out a gasp. In all 17 years of his life, no one knew his name. Not Jack, not Crutchie, not anyone. Until Spot. He hadn't even asked for it, he wasn't that type of newsie, but Race trusted him. Trusted him more than anyone in his life. 

Names were power, everyone knew. It was why so many refused to give their Christian name, instead going by the most outlandish yet personal moniker they could. It was why Race was so shocked when Spot one night simply stared at him for half a minute before saying his name was--

"Sean," he begged, and Spot's face slowly turned from rage to near anguish. " _Please_." 

He stepped closer and Race held in a breath. There was barely an inch between them, all Race would have to do is lean forward--

"Tell me," Spot said, and he sounded nothing but in pain. Race had never heard him like this, and he never wanted to again. Spot used his free hand to grab Race's hand and jerked it forward until it was placed directly on top of Spot's heart. It was beating like crazy, just like his own. "Tell me you didn't mean it." 

"Spot--"

"Tell me again you didn't mean it," He interrupted. "And I'll believe you. I will, Racer, I will." He took in a deep breath and the severity of whatever the hell was going on hit Race full force. This even looked bad. The moon was barely visible, but anyone could look down the alleyway and see their silhouettes. It was a horrible position.

"But if you even a little bit of what you said, you damn well owe it to me to tell me." 

Race wanted to. God, he wanted to. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Race stood there like a damn gaping fish and Spot laughed with no mirth. “You’s a pathetic liar, Race.” He moved to let go of his shirt, but Race’s hand shot out quicker than his mind could tell him not to. 

“They nearly killed my friend.” 

The words were out before he could stop himself, but it had it’s desired effect. Spot stopped in his tracks and his eyes narrowed in question. 

“He… The idiot was caught necking with some Flushing boy…”

The incident in question had happened a little over a year ago. Wren and Race had been friends since childhood, running all around the streets of Brooklyn together before they made their way to Manhattan. Thick as thieves and close as brothers the two were, so when they’s was 15, Wren told him with tears in his eyes that he was in love with another boy and didn't know what to do. That had come as a surprise: Race had heard of men who fancied other men but had regarded them as a fairytale or a tale of caution.

But still. This was Wren. Race had accepted him in a heartbeat and helped him accept himself. If only other people had been so accepting. 

“Bulls beat ‘em within an’ inch of his life. Left him to b-bleed out in a random alley.”

It had taken a long time for Wren to be okay after that. For any queer newsie in New York to be okay after that. Too many of his newsies kept to themselves, and a feeling of dread fell over the Manhattan lodge. 

Race had only figured out he was in the same category after realizing the butterflies in his stomach when he was around the Brooklyn king wasn’t fear. And that realization terrified him. 

"I heard about that." Spot said after a beat of silence. "Heard that Cowboy rose hell on any newsie that tried to bad-mouth the boy." 

The following months after Wren's accident had been hell, but damn if Jack hadn't tightened his rein over Manhattan; any ill-spoken word sent Wren's way was met with a cold stare and threat from nearly every Newsie in Manhattan, Flushing, Queens, Midtown, and the Bronx. For some reason, Brooklyn stayed out it.

"So you get it? I can’t --”

“You can.” Spot said. “You can but you won’t.” 

Spot looked at him and Race could see the walls that he had spent so long breaking down build themselves back up. 

“You’s a coward, Race. And if there’s one thing I’s won’t let myself be associated with, it’s a coward.” 

Over the years, Race had been called an insane amount of curses and slurs, but this one. This one broke him. If Spot had shoved a knife in between his ribs and yanked, it would have hurt less. The second Spot’s hand left Race’s chest, his heart rate changed so drastically, it could have stopped and he wouldn't have been able to feel the difference. 

The night was hot, near-boiling actually, to where both his shirts soaked with sweat and clinging onto him, but he felt so cold. 

Spot turned away from, physically turned away, and Race let him go 5 steps before it hit him. 

If Spot left the alley, left him, he'd be losing everything. The roof of the Brooklyn Lodge, Coney Island, the dances in the rafters of Medda's theatre, the nights of poker, screaming into the Hudson at the docks when there was no one in the world to tell them not to.

He'd be losing Spot. 

And he couldn't handle that. 

_"I meant it!"_

Spot stopped dead in his tracks, turning back to face him slowly as if he was still processing Race's confession.

"I can't tell you I didn't mean it, Sean” He said desperately. “I did, ok?!

Spot flinched back as if Race had struck him, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop, no matter how much it pained him and how much he was risking.

“I meant it with my whole heart and soul. I- I love you. I'm in love with you, I have been for ages! The fact that you check up on me, h-how you let me steal for you even though you hate it, the fact that you _know my name_! I love you so much it fucking hurts.”

Spot didn’t respond. He just stared at Race, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, and he didn’t know if that was better or worse. 

“Do what you want with that, fuck you can soak me, just… knows I ain't a coward." 

A moment passed before a look Race had never seen before reached Spot’s eyes, one that chilled him to the bones. It was so incredibly sad and angry and regretful all at once.

Racer feared for a second that he had truly gone too far because Spot once again grabbed his shirt. He gasped as he was shoved against the brick wall behind them again, but he couldn't dwell on it because Spot yanked him towards him and then--

They were kissing.

Race’s eyes widened, because this, _this_ wasn’t what he had thought would happen. This, necking with The King of Brooklyn in a dark alley was not part of the plan.

Race didn't know what to do, he didn't know what the fuck was going on, but it seemed that he was no longer in control of his body because his hands landed on Spot's chest and he was kissing back.

Spot's eyes were closed, his hands letting go of Race’s shirt and coming up to cup his face, the sweetness of the gesture shocking Race. 

But that was as far as the King's gentleness with him went. Despite the tenderness with which he was being held, Spot’s kisses were rough, aggressive, animalistic. 

It was like nothing Race had ever experienced before.

They moved together as one, hands roaming and lips moving in sync. Both boys found that their bodies pressed together fit like puzzle pieces, as if made with the other in mind. Spot’s hand found a place in his curls and he never wanted him to let go of them.

Race had never entertained the idea of a soulmate, but here in this alley underneath the stars, he'd be lying if the thought didn't cross his mind. 

But he was jolted back to reality when he felt something: tears. 

Was Spot crying?

He pulled away harshly, hands coming up to Spot’s chest.

“ _Shit_ ,” He cursed, forcing himself to joke in order to keep from ruining this. “Fuck, Spotty, was it that bad?”

"Shut your mouth, Higgins," Spot snapped but there was no real heat behind it. If anything, a small smile was tugging at the Brooklyn boy's lips. The two boys stood still for a moment, clutching onto each other as they caught their breaths. 

When the silence became too much to bear, it was the Brooklyn boy who broke it. 

"I," he began. "have been wanting to do that since you's first started selling in Sheepshead." 

Race's eyes grew wide; he had been selling there for years. 

“No, no Spotty, we-- we can’t do this.”

The severity of the situation was hitting him, and it broke his heart to be the one to say it.

“Racer, why the fuck not?” Spot asked, and Race pretended to not notice the desperate lilt to his words. “We both want this, why can’t we just be together?”

“Because I couldn’t live with myself if you’s got hurt because of us.”

Ever since Wren, he had been obscenely conscious of how this could get him killed. But he had never thought Spot could as well. And now the idea scared the shit out of him, more than the idea of losing his own life. 

A look of determination crossed Spot’s face, and he grabbed at Race’s hands, clutching onto them tightly “Antonio, I won’t let anything happen to either of us. Bulls be damned.” He brought Race into a searing kiss and he couldn’t find it in him to stop him. The shorter of the two placed their interlocked hands on Spot's chest both able to feel the steady thrum of his heart.

“Nothing on this Earth could ever stop me from loving you.”

Race was a gambler, a damn good one, and he played with Spot enough to know his tells. The slightest dip of the left corner of his lip, three taps against his thigh, a lilt upwards at the end of his sentences. He knew Spot. And he knew when Spot wasn't lying.

“Shut up and kiss me.” 

Spot didn’t need to be told twice. 

Race didn’t know how long the two of them stayed there, could have been hours and he wouldn’t have felt it. Wouldn't have cared. Suddenly, he didn't feel as scared of the bulls: What were they against the Kings of New York?

Jack was leaving next year, going from a paperboy to a bona-fide political cartoonist, and he was already training Race harder than ever before to replace him. When he was first chosen as his second, Race'd been scared to death, but now? Now he almost couldn't wait. 

The two most powerful newsboys of New York, sweethearts who'd do anything for one another. It'd be a sight to behold. 

"This mean I'm welcome back in Brooklyn?" Race asked, words coming out in a rushed whisper as Spot's lips left his, trailing down his jawline and finding their way to his neck. 

"That depends," Spot said against his skin, and Race had to fight back a groan at the sensation. "You coming back there with me tonight?" 

There was definitely a smug tone in his voice, and if this were any other time, any other person, he'd say no. He was a flirt, of that there was no doubt, but damn he wasn't _that_ easy.

Well, never having done much of anything with anybody, he'd like to think he wasn't that easy.

"Give me a reason to," Race challenged, thanking every God above that his voice wasn't as weak as his legs.

"Easy," Spot said, teeth lightly biting down on his neck, feeling so good that Race felt his knees buckle and his eyes roll back. "I have a room that locks."

Well. It turns out, Racetrack Higgins was in fact that easy. 

" _Fuck_ ," He cursed, leaning forward and only barely landing his head on Spot's shoulder. "I-- I haven't d-done anything, Spot. With anyone." 

The Brooklyn boy seemed to still at that. 

"We ain't gotta do anything, Racer," he said, hands moving upwards, away from any dangerous territory. "But my question still stands: you coming back with me tonight?" 

Jack would kill him, he knew he would, but everything in him was telling him to go. To leave Hattan, just this once, and go away with a pretty boy who wanted him. Who loved him. Spot was there, lips still brushing against his skin, holding him as if he were something precious. The choice was easy. 

"On one condition," He said, tilting Spot's chin up and looking into his eyes, mischievous smirk back on his face. "We gotta make sure your door's locked." 

Spot's eyes widened ever so slightly, but he smiled at him, a rare smile that took Race's breath away. "You are the 8th wonder of the world, Racetrack, you know that?" 

"You's the first person to notice, Spotty," Race laughed, the familiar nickname rolling off his tongue. "But I wouldn't mind hearing it more often, sweetheart." 

It wasn't until Spot raised an eyebrow at him that Race noticed his slip up. "Sweetheart, eh?" 

"I mean--," Race babbled, not entirely sure how he could fib his way out of this one. "If you don't want to--"

Luckily for him, Spot shut him up with the softest kiss of the night, fingers coming up to play with his curls. 

"Racer, I don't know what you take me for, but I ain't the kind of man to tell a fella that I love 'im if I didn't want to be his sweetheart." 

"Oh." Race said, shoulders sagging in relief. "Good." 

Spot gave his lips a peck, the sweetness of it all making Race's heart sing, before pulling away from him and offering a hand. 

He took it. 

The two made the trek from Manhattan to the bridge in relative silence, the only noise between them their footsteps and their laughter when one (or both) of them couldn't help themselves and pulled the other into an alley for a preview of what was to come once they crossed the bridge. 

A good half hour was added to their trip, but neither complained, and Race couldn't help but notice that Spot was once again helping him cross the bridge.

Except this time, Spot was holding his hand, and Race had no intention of letting go. 

"Spotty?"

"Yeah, Racer?" 

"I love you."

"I love you too." 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to die take a shot every time I use italics 🙈✨
> 
> Oh I'm sad to see this fic end but I'm so glad to have it out in the world!!! I love writing these two and I hope you guys enjoy what I put out ❤️
> 
> Please leave me some comments, I adore you guy's feedback!! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you liked it


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